


Summertime Love

by psychoffic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Awkward Crush, Bottom John Watson, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Local Farm, Love Confessions, Loving John Watson, M/M, Making Out, Peaches - Freeform, Semi-Public Sex, Shirtless, Summer London, Surprise Kissing, Top Sherlock, heat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29409891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychoffic/pseuds/psychoffic
Summary: John convinces Sherlock to take a trip to a local farm to pick some fruits. At the orchard, surrounded by peach trees and sunshine, John confesses his love.Half Fluff/Half Smut
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

Summertime was horrible. It was filled with sweltering heat and buzzing insects. In a busy city such as London, summertime was hell. 

John sat in his worn chair as he flapped the newspaper at his face. It provided a small relief as slightly cool air brushed over his skin. A permanent pink hue colored the tan cheeks. Lazy blue eyes glared at the windows, looking onto the shining sun. The AC had broken down. John had attempted to get someone to fix it, but it was almost impossible to schedule an appointment. Everyone was struggling. This summer was not like any other. It was impossibly hot. The sidewalks, which were usually bustling with tourists and locals, were empty. The crowd only came out of their hiding when the sun was setting. But even the nights were sweltering. 

The newspaper picked up pace as frustration coursed through John. It was so hot. He would love to take a cold shower. But there were only so many times he could do that. If kept up the three showers a day, the water bill would be sky high. 

John lolled his head, looking over at Sherlock. The detective was perched on the couch. His usual attire was replaced with a sleeveless t-shirt and a pair of rolled up slacks. John could not help his eyes from flickering to Sherlocks chest, observing the white material clinging to the detective. It was slightly see through from the sweat pouring off the man, and John was not protesting in the slightest. He kept his curious gaze discreet, only occasionally looking at the marbled body the t-shirt offered a view to. 

John had been nursing his crush for Sherlock for three years now. He had admitted to it, when Sherlock returned from the dead. Perhaps not the smartest move, but he could not resist it. He was soaring on a cloud of emotions. The chick he had been dating, Mary, was quickly thrown out of his mind when he saw Sherlock, whole and alive. He had realized then, that what he felt for Mary was not love. However, the feeling that soared through him when he saw Sherlock, now that was love. Albeit, the first encounter was mixed with anger. Afterwards, as Sherlock sat on the sidewalk nursing his torn lip, John sat down next to him and told him. He told Sherlock he loved him.

Not surprisingly, the detective did not reciprocate. But he did not leave. It was a delicate balance. John's heart ached everytime he looked into the beautiful green eyes, knowing they did not feel what he did. But it sure beat losing the man. After the faked death, he came to appreciate the detective and his presence. He had not realized how much he needed Sherlock until then. 

And so John sat in his armchair, nursing his love for the detective. He did not make any moves, worried it would spook Sherlock like an animal. Afterall, the man was deathly afraid of emotion. But he did indulge himself at times. It was not often. But it was enough to satisfy. Moments like these, where he could peak at the man and appreciate his beauty. It would satisfy the craving for reciprocation. At least for a few days. 

Sherlock was typing away on his laptop furiously. The keys clacked loudly, filling the silence. John watched as a bead of sweat rolled down the chiseled cheek and onto his neck. How he wished it was his tongue and not the sweat that could taste the pale skin. Dreamy thoughts. John looked away as the detective shifted in his seat, pausing his typing. 

“Why is it so bloody hot here?” 

“Sherlock, I told you a million times. The repairmen are busy.”

“Well, call again. I cannot think with this heat. It is clouding my mind. One of the weaknesses of a human body.” Sherlock spit out, his face contorted in disgust. Leave it to the detective to hate on the body that gave him life. If Sherlock could be a simple walking brain, John was sure he would take the opportunity.

John rolled his eyes. He made no move to follow the detectives order. It would be useless. Half of London was overwhelmed with the heat. They would need to wait a few days until John could get a call in. It was forecasted to get cooler soon, hopefully then availability would open up. For now, the only thing that was available was the newspaper. 

The paper crinkled in his hands, slumping down limply from the fast movement John had been doing. He stared down at it, disappointed that his fan broke. As he sat up, ready to get a book to replace it, an ad caught his eye. Turning the newspaper John read over it. It was advertising a small local farm, about an hour or so from London. They were selling fruits and berries in bundles. Autumn was oncoming in a few weeks, and it was a hotsale of anything left. John smacked his lips, tasting the fruit on his tongue. He had not eaten a decently ripe fruit ever since moving in with Sherlock. The days were usually busy with clients and crime scenes. Most of his diet consisted of dry sandwiches and fast food whenever he had a break. Some fruit picking sounded extremely tempting, especially with the heat of London. Perhaps it would be cooler further from the teeming city. John could picture it now, him and Sherlock sitting under the shade of a tree, feeding each other fruits, their legs pressed together as the summer breeze cooled their skin. The thought was slightly overzealous, but an idea nonetheless. 

“Sherlock, I have got a solution.”

“Do tell, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock replied, still furiously typing. 

“There is a local farm selling berries. Let's have a drive. It's not far, and would be a nice break for you.”

“A farm? A break? John, I am extremely busy.”

“Sherlock, you are always busy.” John replied, exasperated.

The detective continued to type. His silence was a clear answer, no. John could not hold back a pout as he shifted in his seat. His fan was now slumped over on the floor and the beads of sweat were rolling down his nape endlessly. Frustration bloomed in his chest. Quickly he stood up, shuffling over to the detective. A tan hand forcefully slammed the laptop shut, drawing up glaring green eyes. 

“Sherlock please.” John begged. His eyes were wide as he stared at the angered detective. He drew his eyebrows together, attempting to make a pleading face. It was most likely useless to bribe the detective with emotion, but John had to give it a try. The two men stared at each other. Each not willing to give ground. The sun shone down through the windows, heating the flat. A light pink hue bloomed across Sherlock's face. John was unsure if it was from the heat or from their intense staring contest. Finally, the apple green eyes flickered away in defeat. John could not hold back a smile as the detective gave a resigned sigh. 

“Fine.”

John knew Sherlock was stubborn as a bull. If he did not want to do something, he would think of all the solutions on how to avoid it. The man was giving in to John's whims. It filled his heart with warmth as he watched the detective get up grumpily. John pulled out his phone, dialing a cab as he shook with excitement. 

A date with the detective. Albeit, it was only a date in John's mind, it was enough to suffice his heart, that ached for love. 

After placing a call for the cab, John rushed upstairs. His usual attire consisted of white button up, a woolen jumper and a pair of slacks. Afterall, London was known for its murky clouds and chilly temperature. Not today. Not this summer. London was not its usual self. And John was not prepared in the slightest. He gazed at his closet. It was full of warm winter clothes. With a sigh, he picked out his most worn clothing pieces, knowing they would get dirty at a farm. 

He looked into the full-body mirror hanging on his wall as he put on a blue button up shirt, leaving the first two buttons open. He rolled the sleeves up, allowing his forearms free. It provided some comfort, but in a few seconds the back of the shirt was sticking to his back. Heat was the worst. 

For bottom apparel, he pulled on a pair of jeans. They were slightly loose in the waist, and he had to pull out a belt to keep them up. One would assume with age you gained weight. But it seemed that all the weight John gained with his arrival to London was quickly shucked off by the detective and his racing mind. John observed himself in the mirror. For once, he was happy with how he looked. He was decently handsome. His hair was matted back with sweat, revealing tan skin and stormy blue eyes. His figure was slightly bulky but still lean, and the clothes accentuated him perfectly. John felt almost impressed with his fit. It was far from the usual attire, and he could only hope Sherlock would hold the same appreciation. 

“Joooooohn.” The detective's baritone voice bounced against the walls. John walked over to the window, looking down at the cab he had ordered, waiting at the sidewalk. With hurried footsteps he rushed to the living room, spotting the detective sprawled back on the couch, typing once more. He had not changed his clothing as John expected. The same sleeveless t-shirt and black slacks still clad his body. John did not dwell on the man's presumed actions. Sherlock was usually uptight with his appearance, but he did not seem fazed enough to put in effort today.

“Sherlock, why are you typing? Leave the bloody laptop and let’s go.” John exclaimed. He grabbed the keys and opened the door as Sherlock got up with a grunt. A clear displeased grimace was set on the detective's face, John paused opening the door, as a pang of guilt hit him in the gut. Was he forcing Sherlock to do this? John had thought it would be a good thing, to get out of the stuffy flat and into the fresh air. Away from London. Away from horrible crimes and dead bodies. Was he being unfair?

“Sherlock, “ John placed a hand on the detectives chest. His heartbeat picked up at the contact as their interlocked eyes. He scrunched his eyebrows as he looked onto the detectives grimaced face, “You do not need to go. I just… thought it would be fun. You know?”

“Oh John, stop being a sob. Lets go. A plan is a plan.” With that, Sherlock pushed past John, tearing the tan hand away from his chest. John chased after the detective as they rushed down the stairs and into the cab. His hand tingled from the contact. He would still feel the shirts thin material and Sherlock’s dull heartbeat on the tips of his finger. A smile that had unknowingly graced his features was wiped away as he braced himself against the car door. He slipped into the seat, placing an appropriate distance between them. Sherlock ignored the soldier as he stared out the window. John instructed the cabby, who frowned as he received the address. 

“Lenny Farms? That is an hour away…”

“Yep.” John agreed, sitting back in his seat.

The cabby rolled his eyes, clearly unhappy. With a harsh grip on the wheel he drove them out on the streets and towards the destination. John kept his eyes fixated on the road as they traveled, knowing one glance at the sweat laden, pink-cheeked detective and he would lose his composure. John was quite good at schooling his emotions. Sometimes. 

Sometimes, he could not stop his face and body from clearly expressing his desire. Such as the time he had seen Sherlock shirtless. It was the first summertime hot night. The detective had strolled in, wearing slacks and no shirt. John almost choked on his tea at the sight. His eyes took in every curve, every detail of the alabaster skin before he recollected himself to chide the detective. Sherlock had argued back, stating he was hot and there was no reason he could not go shirtless in his own home. As John clearly lost the logical side of the argument, he rushed out of the room. His cheeks were stained a burgundy red and lust shot through his veins at an alarming speed. John had stumbled into the bathroom, crouching over the sink as he took deep breaths. It was hard to contain himself. Sometimes the yearning was so deep that he was afraid his body would betray him. John stayed there for a while, recollecting his thoughts. The next morning he found Sherlock fully dressed, enjoying a morning tea. John felt guilt course through him as he realized. As he realized that Sherlock , in fact, knew. He saw the reaction that overtook John, and it was appalling enough to make him clothe himself. Did John make him that uncomfortable with his desire? It was a few awkward days as the men tried to fall back into their normal pattern. John was extra careful with each step, afraid that one wrong move and he would be causing pain and embarrassment to the detective. Eventually it all smoothed out. As it usually did. 

But John could not control the dreams that plagued him afterwards. No matter how guilty and horrible he felt waking up after each of them. His mind had other thoughts as it replayed the sight of Sherlock half-naked. It would put him in scenarios and positions that had John waking up with lust coiling his gut and his cheeks painted red with desire. That was human nature. That was love. That was desire. 

The cab squealed as they pulled up onto a dirt road. John blinked a few times, looking around. The familiar scene of cityline London was replaced by towering trees and luscious grass. They were almost there. The hour had passed in a flash as John was lost in his thoughts. He glanced quickly at the detective, who was in the same position they began the journey in. His eyes were distant and focused, most likely mulling over a case. John turned back, staring out. His nose pressed into the glass in a childish manner as they passed the beautiful scenery. A few miles in, pastures began to pop up. All sorts of animals grazed within. Ranging from horses and cows, to small sheep and goats. John admired them. It was like morphine to reconnect with the world. Sometimes he felt that life was nothing but murder and violence. Death took a toll after all. He knew more than many, as a soldier, that death stayed with you. But seeing this, the grazing animals and beautiful trees dancing in the sunlight, calmed him to the core and reminded him of another world. 

Tires squealed as they took a sharp left turn. A rusted metal sign read out ‘Lenny Farms’. John scooted in his seat, excitement in his veins. He observed the farm. It had a large red barn and small wooden stalls scattered around it. A valley of uniform trees stretched on for miles on the right. On the right was flat upturned dirt, that most likely hosted berries and root vegetables. The farm was massive. When he had read over the advertisement, John had imaged a few stalls and a shabby house. This was not small, it was gigantic. 

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts with a grunt as the cabby parked the car with a jarring stop. John dug into his jeans, pulling out a few bills. He handed them to the cabby, telling him to keep the change before both men jumped out. The cabby peeled away with a squeal, most likely aching to get back to busy London, where the customers were plenty. 

“Quite… nice.”

“Sherlock you don't have to pretend.” John replied. He began to walk towards the barn, hearing Sherlock jog up next to him. The gravel crunched under their feet loudly. The sun shone, just as blaring. It made them pick up pace; anything to get out of the hot rays. 

“I am not. It is nice.”

John looked over, surprised. Sherlock was not frowning or grimacing as he was earlier. A serene look had settled over his features as he looked around. The wind blew gently, ruffling the soft curls John had dreamed many times of running his hands through. He wondered how it would feel. How soft they would be. He wanted to try at least once, though, that was a wish that would most likely go with him to the grave. He felt the wind caress his face as well. A content sigh left his lips at the feeling. It brushed down his skin, soothing the fierce heat that stirred underneath. 

As they arrived at the barn, John noticed a few people wandering about. They held woven baskets and pushed rusted metal carts around. It was mostly families with a few children running around, laughing with glee. The crowd paid no attention to the two men as they walked into the barn. 

The interior was set up like a shop. It had rows of shelves filled with honey, jams, fruits, and small snacks. Fairy lights hung from the shafts and a large fan blew harshly onto the entering customers; offering a cool relief. A cashiers table stood off to the side, where a young lady was happily helping an older couple. John walked ahead of Sherlock, an excited spring in his step as he looked at all the goodies. They were all packaged nicely in thick glass jars, and John picked up a jar of cherry jam. It would be a nice breakfast option. A fresh jam from a farm? Compared to the factory produced ones found in every supermarket? Hell yeah. 

John grabbed a few more jars. An apricot jam, one honey jar with a honeycomb inside, a pine jam, and a rose jam. He held them in his arms like a hamster would hold nuts in his mouth. He continued down the shelves, looking over each thing. He felt a childlike excitement rush through him. Over some jams. The thought was laughable, but it did not stop the soldier from idling on. 

“Here.” Sherlock came up suddenly; his presence was previously forgotten. John flinched slightly as the detective crowded him into the corner of the barn. His hands reached out, grabbing two jars, one for each hand. Their arms brushed at the action, and the detective's warm breath passed over his neck. A shiver raced through his body. John quickly covered his reaction as he sprang forward, away from the proximity. He stared at the shelves aimlessly for a few seconds, pretending to be interested, as he gathered his composure. Sherlock did not seem to notice as he looked down at the jars. His eyebrows furrowed as he read over the labels, no doubt judging whatever he was reading. John finally gathered himself as he looked on. The rest of the jams were normal flavors he could find anywhere. But as he got to the last shelf, he spotted a loaf of bread. It was sitting on the shelf, all alone. It would seem most of it had sold out. John grabbed it, rotating it around. It was baked locally. A delicious addition to his jams. Happy with his haul, John approached the cashier, placing his jars and bread on the table. Sherlock deposited the rest before stepping back. 

“Will that be all sir?”

“Er, yes. And um, where do we buy the fruits?”

“Well,” The cashier began to scan the items, placing them in a cloth bag. “We have strawberries, blueberries, cherries, and peaches available right now. You can find pre-picked baskets of them in the stalls outside. If you are interested, you can pay a set fee and go pick the berries yourself.”

“I did not know that was an option.” John mused as he fished out his wallet. 

“Yes sir. It is lots of fun, I highly recommend it. You can selectively pick your own fruit, and of course… sneak a few into your mouth straight from the source.” The cashier winked. John smiled as he handed over a few bills. The cashier took them, typing away at the register. John took the moment to look over at Sherlock. Their eyes interlocked. A silent conversation was exchanged. One in which John was begging to go pick some fruit and Sherlock was chidding him, telling him why put in the work when the fruits were right there outside, ready. In a surprise twist of events, Sherlock relented and his head bobbed in agreement. John's lips stretched out into a wide simile. A smile only Sherlock could bring out of the soldier. 

“I would like to pay that fee for the fruit picking.”

“Wonderful!” The cashier was overly excited to type in the fee. The register rang as the total was displaced. John took out a few more bills, adding them to the pile. A small ticket was handed to him, along with the clothed bag. 

“Show that ticket to the man outside the gate as you enter. And feel free to grab a basket or cart outside!”

John nodded his head awkwardly; unsure how to reply to her enthusiasm. He was saved from an answer as a small family hurried up, dumping their products onto the table, drawing the cashiers attention. John took the lead, walking out of the barn and back into the sweltering heat. 

Looking around he spotted the baskets and carts. It was just him and Sherlock, a cart was too much, but a basket would suffice. John walked over, bending down awkwardly to pull out a basket as he fumbled with the heavy bag that was slipping down his shoulders. A pale hand shot out, grabbing the bag before it could tumble into the dirt. John looked up, watching as Sherlock held it up. 

“Give me. You take the basket, I will take the bag.” John complied, shucking the bag and handing it over. With his body free of the weight he confidently grabbed the basket, carrying it like a maiden. As he straightened, the soldier paused, looking around. Cherries and peaches were to the right, and strawberries and blueberries were to the left. He glanced quizly at the detective opening up his mouth to ask for a preference. But the deadpanned eyes gave away how little the detective really cared. John gathered his thoughts. His tongue rolled around his mouth, reminiscing the tastes of each fruit. Eventually he settled on peaches. They were the hardest to find in London, and a juicy peach sounded like heaven. 

Turning on his heel John began to walk towards the rows of trees. A young man was crouched near the gate to the orchard. A straw hat was half slumped over his face. His skin was red, heated from the sun. He glared up as the two approached. John fished out the ticket, showing it to him. A quick head jerk signaled their permission to enter. 

John walked forward, glancing around. The orchard stretched out both ways, the trees never ending. The bustle of the crowd has dimmed as most people were streaming into the strawberry patches, no doubt being demanded by the children. The orchard was mostly empty, with the exception of a young couple a few rows up picking peaches, and a sleeping man leaning against a tree a few rows back. John began to walk towards the back rows, past the man, and further down. The dirt was uneven under his feet, and he had to reclaim his balance a few times at a few uneven patches. Sherlock lagged behind. 

“John where are we going?”

“To pick peaches.”

“They are… right here.” John looked back, watching as the confused detective gestured at the many rows they were passing. Each row had low hanging peaches overwhelming the trees. 

“Yes, but the trick is to go as far down as possible. Most people don't put in the effort to go there, and usually the best peaches are there.”

“Why are we putting in the effort?” Sherlock whined behind him. 

“Sherlock, I just told you. It has the best peaches.”

John was not graced with an answer. They continued their walk in silence. The sweltering sun followed them across the sky. John squinted as he looked at the path ahead. He felt his skin become wet with sweat and his shirt mat against his body. He shifted at the uncomfortable feeling of the material sticking to him. Eventually the heat got too much for the soldier. Sherlocks breathing behind him was heavy with tiredness. For a man who raced across London constantly, it was a wonder he could not handle a walk down a few rows. Albeit, it was extremely hot. John took pity on the detective and on himself, as he turned into a row, casting them into the shadow of the trees. 

The chatter of the crowd was gone. The air was filled with rustling leaves and the occasional chirping birds. John inhaled a deep breath as they paused. He let it fill his lungs until he could not take anymore. He exhaled, feeling the smog of London leave him. 

The peaches looked delectable. They hung from the branches, close to dropping off at the slightest movement. The tree branches slumped, overburdened with the ripeness and weight of the fruit. John gave them relief as he reached over, picking out a peach. 

The peach was heavy in his palm. It was a bright orange color, with a red hue peppering the skin on one side. A small green stem poked out at the top, a single leaf still attached. John ripped it off, letting it float to the ground. Bringing it to his lips he took a large inhale. It smelled wonderful. Fresh and ripe. He took a bite. It crunched delectably before flavor burst across his tongue. An overwhelming taste of sweetness flooded his mouth, accompanied with a pinch of sourness. The juices could not be contained as they dripped down his chin and neck. John heard himself moan, not registering the sound as his own until after his euphoric experience. How long has it been since he ate fresh fruit? A year? Two? Three? It did not matter. He was eating it now, and it was heaven.

John took another bite, the juices spilling out once more. He felt the liquid dribble down his chin before he turned around. Sherlock was watching him with an intense gaze. His pupils were dilated, even though they were standing in a brightly sun-lit orchard. His eyes followed the dripping liquid, down the soldiers chin, his neck, down his chest as it disappeared behind the shirt. John cleared his throat, finally bringing the intense eyes back up to his face. Sherlocks cheeks colored. Though John could not be sure if it was from the heat or from him. The detective cleared his throat as well, prompting John to speak. 

“Try some Sherlock, it is d-delectable.” John finally stuttered out. The detective hummed, he dropped the bag onto the plush grass, reaching out to grab the nearest one. He bit into it harshly. John watched in rapt wonder as the pink lips he dreamed many nights of kissing wrapped around the peach. Juices spurted onto them, and dribbled down the distinct pale chin. Blue eyes followed the liquid, watching it trail down the pale lean neck and onto the chest. John wondered to himself how it would taste to kiss the detective. To taste the delectable peach and Sherlock himself. It would be heaven, surely. 

“John?” Sherlock asked. His peached stained lips stretched into a smile as he watched the soldier swallow visibly. John seemed to not hear him at all. The detective took a step forward, towering over the soldier. He looked down, finally catching John's wide gaze. He looked like a deer caught in a headlight. 

Sherlock was standing just centimeters from him. His sleeveless t-shirt was once again damp and clinging to his body in all the right places. John felt his mouth dry as he drank in the sight. He looked up, watching the look of bemusement on the detectives face. He knew what John was feeling. Most likely could read every single thought bouncing through the soldiers head. John was unsure why he was in such a haze. His mind kept chanting for him to step up, tilt his head, and capture those lips. Just once. Just a taste. 

“John?” Sherlock repeated. His voice was deeper, rougher. He gazed at the soldier, reading the emotions clear as day. His lithe body leaned in, closer and closer until their chest were close enough to feel the heat radiation from them. John swallowed, looking up. They exchanged looks, staring at one another. The air felt oddly charged. It felt tense. One wrong move and it could ruin everything. One right move and it would make everything wonderful. 

John was not sure what move he was making as he stepped forward, pressing their bodies together. He felt Sherlocks lean body against his; the ridges of the muscles hard as rock. His hand, which had been holding the peach, dropped it to instead come up to grip the detectives bicep. Without a second of hesitation, John stood up on his toes and brought the perfect lips he had dreamed of into his own. 

Sherlock tasted like the peach. Overwhelmingly sweet and delicious. John flicked out his tongue, licking the bottom lip. He gathered the flavor, a moan escaping his lip. Sherlock remained rigid in his grip. Not moving away, but not reciprocating either. A pang of want shot though Johns chest as he pushed forward, asking for more. But the detective did not give in. John drank in the last second of the kiss. Memorizing how Sherlock tasted, sweet, and feeling of his lips, soft. Before he stepped back, the unmoving body of the detective jarring him back to reality. John took a few more steps back, putting a healthy distance between them as he watched the detectives face. 

A look of surprise had overtaken the pale face. Green eyes were staring at John, with shock and an unknown emotion. The lips that he had been kissing a few seconds ago, were reddened and parted. John felt his face flush with embarrassment. The desire that had coiled in his gut was gone instantly, replaced by the cold heavy feeling of fear. Had he finally overstepped his boundaries? Sherlock had been clear in his intent to not engage in a romantic relationship. Would this be their last day together? Fear swam through his body and to his head, until John was swaying on his feet. His mind was unfocused, eyes staring at the detective who had not moved. He felt bile gather in his throat, and if he stayed a few more moments standing, he would surely ruin the luscious grass with his vomit. John quickly sat dawn, leaning into the tree as he placed his head in between his knees. He took steady deep breaths, counting in his head. Slowly the swimming vision and bile subsided, though the fear did not. 


	2. Chapter 2

John heard the grass shuffle next to him. He shut his eyes tightly. Sherlock was going to leave now. Walk away, forever. John had ruined it all. 

Instead, John heard a body sit down next to him. The familiar pale hand of the detective appeared in his vision. It was laying on the grass, palm up. An invitation?

Slowly John raised his head, glancing over. Sherlock was looking at him, an unreadable expression on his face. His shoulder bumped John as an awkward smile graced his lips. “It's okay, John.”

“No, it is not.” John replied. He looked down at the palm, observing each ridge and groove. Embarrassment and fear battled in his heart. Not one emotion able to overtake him. It was a horrible mix. 

“It is, I-... you told me how you felt. It is only natural for you to act on it eventually. You are human John.” Sherlock replied softly. His hand curled in and out. A clear invitation. John quickly placed his calloused hand in the inviting palm. He felt the slightly cool skin caress his, bringing a smidge of comfort. He watched as they interlaced their fingers, the pale hand overlapping his. 

So, Sherlock was not mad at him. Then why was the deep seated feeling of fear still burning in his heart? Was it because John feared that Sherlock was simply calculating that action as a human flaw? That he did not reciprocate the kiss? Did the detective not feel anything at all? 

“John.”

The detective murmured his name, bringing his eyes back up. He stared into the green irises, craving answers to his questions.

“Do you-... do you feel anything for me? Anything at all? Because you have to tell me. It is killing me to not know. If you care for me in the slightest then tell me. I can not keep guessing and wondering. And I know Sherlock, I know you hate emotion and think it is a weakness, but please I need to know. Is there a chance? Do we have a chance as something more?” John ranted, unable to stop the words from spilling out. They came straight from his heart, unfiltered by his mind. He stared at the detective as he watched the pale features contort in a painful look. He could see the cogs turning, evaluating the best way to respond. John looked down as the silence continued. It was enough of a response. His heart dropped into his stomach as he began to pull his hand away. 

A harsh grip stopped him. John looked down in surprise to see Sherlock refusing to let go. Confusion filled the soldier, and he looked up. The minute he did, John's lips were suddenly being captured by familiar peach tasting ones. John stared at Sherlock in shock as the kiss deepened. He watched as the dark lashes fluttered against the skin, a pink hue on the detective's cheeks. The minute he felt a tongue brush against his bottom lip, John closed his eyes and sighed. His hands came up away from the grip, tugging at Sherlock's shirt to bring him closer. The detective grunted in reply, refusing to move up.. Instead, a steel-like grip encircled John's hips and he was suddenly being hauled onto Sherlock lap. John gave a gasp of surprise that was swallowed by the detectives lips. 

He must be dreaming. Surely. It was a dream, all of this. No way, was the world's only consulting detective kissing him back. John could not help the feeling of pure happiness rush through his veins as they kissed. Sherlock tasted like peach, and something more. Something that was simply unique to the detective. John was hooked, he needed more. He shifted, getting into a comfortable position to straddle the detective. His hands came up to grip at the curls, brushing through them. Just as he had imagined, they were soft and pliant. Like silk. It felt amazing to finally feel them on his fingertips. The grip on his hips tightened as Sherlock pulled him closer. 

John bit at the plush lips in response. The fear and embarrassment had ebbed away to be replaced by elated happiness and desire. Desire to feel more of Sherlock. With the man in his grasp he wanted to know more. To hear Sherlock moan, to know how he tastes, to touch his body. He needed it, like he needed air. John ripped away from the kiss, gasping delicious oxygen into his lungs. Sherlock panted underneath him, staring up at the soldier with lustful eyes. John wanted to dive back in so badly, it physically pained him to stop. But his mind reeled, still unsure if this was real. 

“Sherlock, are you- are you sure? I mean you-”

“John,” Sherlock leaned forward, capturing him in a quick kiss, “Stop.”

John obeyed the command, clicking his jaw shut. He stared into the dilated green eyes. They looked at each other, reading each other's mind. Albeit, one was doing a better job than the other, as confusion still surged through the soldier. This was okay? After years of limited contact, Sherlock was fine with John straddling him? Not that he was complaining, it was just foreign. 

“Sherlock-” John started up again. The rest of the words died out in his throat as Sherlock leaned down, kissing underneath his chin. A tongue flicked out, licking the expanse of skin. John's eyelashes fluttered shut at the feeling, and his body became pliant in the detective's tight grip. Goosebumps covered his skin as Sherlock kissed lower, licking down the trail the peach juices had left. A content moan escaped the detective's mouth as he lapped at the taste. A final kiss was planted just above John's collarbone. 

The lips returned, capturing him in a kiss. This one was more intense, more needy. John reeled at the unfiltered want he felt course through his body. Sherlocks grip on his hips was deadly as he pulled the soldier as close as possible. John's hand, which had gone limp, trailed back up the detective's arm and into his curls, gripping them tightly. Sherlock moaned in appreciation at the feeling. A wet tongue brushed Johns bottom lip; he opened up instantly. He felt Sherlock deepen the kiss. His taste permeated John's mouth. It was a sensory overload. Their lips were mashing together, tongues dancing, hips pressing together harshly. John could only hold on tightly as they continued to kiss. He wanted more. He needed more. 

  
  


“S-Sherlock.” John gasped out as he pulled away. He rolled his hips down pointedly, pleading. Sherlock grinned, a look of recognition painting the detectives face. He was preening at the way John was clinging to him. The way John was moaning at every touch. The way the soldiers eyes were hooded with desire, his thoughts void of nothing but Sherlock. He was enjoying the power he held. 

John let him preen. He rolled his hips down once more, bringing out a moan from the detective. A delicious shot of lust surged through both men at the friction. John could not hold himself from doing it again and again. He was reveling in the feeling it gave him, and the sounds it brought from the baritone throat. Sherlock kissed him, slamming their mouths together for a few seconds before pulling away. John whined at the loss, until suddenly they were rolling sideways. He felt his back hit the grassy field, it tickled his ears as he leaned back down onto it. The sun rays blinded John before Sherlocks figure came into sight, blocking them out. Sherlock was laying on top of him; John's legs wrapped around his waist. 

Was this really happening? Were they going to-? John blushed furiously and looked away. He heard Sherlock chuckle at his reaction. This was what John had been dreaming about for ages, so why was he the one who was suddenly pausing? Love. That was why. He wanted Sherlock. God, he wanted him so bad the desire was almost painful. But his heart twinged in protest. Was Sherlock doing this for the physical desire? Or because he actually reciprocated the feelings? 

“Sherlock… do you love me?” John whispered. His head was still turned to the side, too afraid to look into the eyes in case of rejection. 

Sherlock breathed heavily above him. He was silent for a few moments, assessing his thoughts. A hand came up to brush John's tan cheeks, turning his head into the brilliant gaze of the detective. The fingers smoothed over the expanse of the cheeks comfortingly. John leaned into the touch with a sigh, never breaking their gaze. 

“I-... listen John. I am not good with emotion. You know that. I cannot say I love you, “ John felt his stomach drop, “But, I want to learn. I want to know how to love. I want to learn more about you. To know what love is. I cannot say I love you, that would be a lie… but I want to learn. I want to love you.”

John smiled. That answer would suffice. It was not entirely what he hoped for, but Sherlock was willing to learn and John was willing to teach him. It was a small step, but a step nonetheless. John leaned forward, planting a soft kiss. Sherlock reciprocated by pushing John down into the grass with a forceful grip. The detective rolled his hips, bringing back the delicious friction. John moaned into the kiss, feeling breathless as all the pieces of life were connecting. He was kissing the brilliant man named Sherlock. A man who finally reciprocated his feelings and gave John the adrenaline the army had given him. It was all perfect. 

Tan hands traveled up Sherlocks arms and to his back, clawing at the shirt there. Sherlock growled at the action, giving a particularly harsh thrust. It was sweltering hot in these clothes; John yearned to take them off. To catch the relief of the cool breeze and to feel Sherlocks skin on his. He could do it.

John reached up, tugging at Sherlock’s shirt. The detective quickly got the hint; his hips stopped as he sat up to pull it off and over his head. 

John felt his mouth drop open at the sight before him. Sherlock was cradled between his legs, shirtless. The sweat dripped down the skin, illuminating every ridge and muscle in the bright sun. Sherlocks curls were a mess, wildly pointing in all directions. A light blush dusted the cheeks as he stared down at John with pure want in his eyes. John brought his hands up, smoothing over the chest. It was rigid with muscles that flexed under his fingertips. Sherlock threw his head back, exposing his long pale neck at the feeling of the hands traveling down his body. John settled his fingertips on the rim of Sherlocks slacks. He looked lower, noticing the bulge. He felt his mouth water. His hands tugged at the slacks, asking for permission. 

Sherlock looked back down. A look of uncertainty crossed his features. HIs hands came up, covering Johns. Was this too far?

“John are you sure? Here? Now? What if someone-”

“Sherlock I do not bloody care. Please, if you want me, please…” John interrupted the detective. His tongue tripped over itself as he spewed out the words. His mind racing faster than his body could work. Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath as he pushed the soldiers hands off his pant loops. John whined in protest before he felt his shirt buttons being popped open. Sherlock was meticulous and efficient as he took the shirt off in record speed, exposing Johns tan chest. Slowly, he leaned over him. His hands returned to grip the soldiers hips harshly grinding them together slower. His curls tickled John's nose as a soft kiss was planted on the wound his shoulder had received in the battlefield. John flinched at the touch, it was foreign to him, to have anyone touch him there. Sherlock soothed him by peppering a few more kisses before traveling down. John felt like he would burst. Sherlock was moving so slowly, mapping every inch of his skin, it was agonizing. He wanted the detective so bad. His hips dipped upwards, trying to get friction, but the detective stopped him with a quick nip to the skin. 

John moaned in frustration as he looked down. Sherlock stared at him from under his eyelashes as he pointedly licked down and around John's nipple. John watched in awe as the detective gathered the sensitive bud in his mouth, rolling his tongue around it languidly. The feeling had another wave of desire crash though John to the point he was worried he would pass out. He arched his back into the feeling. Sherlock moaned, a pleased sound coming from his throat at the reaction he was given. 

“Sherlock, please.” John begged, thrusting his hips up pointedly. Sherlock was merciful. His hands trailed down, unbuckling the belt hastily before tearing the jeans down in a smooth motion. Sherlock leaned back up, the nipple popping out of his mouth with an obscene sound as he shifted John's legs to pull the jeans off completely. John felt a blush like no other overcome him as he watched Sherlock eye him up and down. He was now completely naked, laying in the bright green grass, the sun rays dancing over his chest. His button-up shirt was bunched at his arms. His cock bobbed free in between his legs, the head leaking with precum. He was unbelievably hard, to the point of pain. He wanted Sherlock so bad; his mind and body portrayed that clearly. A hungry look overtook Sherlock before he pulled down his own slacks. John's eyes immediately jumped from the pale face and downwards. Sherlock was large, larger than John. It was nestled in a nest of curly black hair. The cock was pale as the man himself, except for the bright pink head. John drank up the sight, imaging what it would feel like and taste like. He wanted to know. His hands reached down, trying to grab for it. But Sherlock took both of his wrists and pinned them above his head in a smooth motion; rendering the soldier useless. He let Sherlock do it, happy with any way he could have the man. Sherlock settled in between his legs. One hand stayed, pinning his wrists into the soft grass, while another trailed down, curling around John's cock. John gasped his eyes rolling back with pleasure. Sherlock smiled, leaning down to capture the noises with his mouth. HIs hips pressed in, allowing him to take both of them into his hand. He pumped agonizingly slowly, trailing up and down the skin. John bucked into the touch, but a quick nip on his bottom lip stopped him. Desire shot up his spine with each stroke. His back arched from the grass as he wrapped his legs around the detectives lithe waist, bringing him closer. John finally pulled one hand free from the grip. He reached down, stopping the detectives movements to push the hand lower. 

Sherlock pulled away, looking at him. John nodded. He wanted this. Right now. Right here in this bloody orchard. Sherlock grinned, all teeth, as he brought up his hand. Two pale fingers roughly pushed into John's mouth. John gagged lightly as they filled his mouth. He sucked, twirling his tongue around the digits, coating them generously. Sherlock looked at him hungrily, feeling the tongue slip along his fingers. John could imagine doing this motion somewhere else, and judging by the look in the green eyes, so could Sherlock. The fingers pulled back, a thin line of saliva attaching them to Johns mouth before they traveled down. Sherlock leaned forward, kissing him on the neck. John threw his head back, exposing the expanse of tan skin as he felt the fingers trail down his stomach, past his cock, and finally to his arse. They circled there, pushing in between the cheeks. John felt himself clench up slightly. He had never done this before. He wanted it so bad, but it was all foreign. Sherlock placed a comforting kiss on his collarbone before pushing in a single digit. John grimaced at the stretch. It felt uncomfortable. Lube would have been much better, but he was not willing to wait an hour ride home for that. Sherlock made gentle humming noises as he worked the finger in. Pale hips rolled languidly, bringing a moan from both men as their cocks brushed together. 

“Are you okay?” Sherlock murmured. His worried eyes appeared in front of John, analyzing his face. John nodded meekly. He ground his hips down, onto the finger. The stretch hurt, but it was better. He leaned forward, kissing the detective. The finger pulled out, replaced by two. This one brought a hiss from John's mouth as they pushed in. Sherlock kissed him feverishly, trying to soothe the soldier. The hips continued to roll forward, bringing shocks of pleasure that began to counter the pain. John moaned at the feeling. It was getting better. The pain was ebbing away to be filled by a foreign feeling of fullness. John did not hate it, in fact, it made pleasure coil in his stomach, thinking of being filled by Sherlock. 

The fingers curled inside him, searching for something. John felt his lips still into the kiss as Sherlock gently brushed against something inside him. The touch disappeared as quickly as it came. John whined, chasing the feeling. Sherlock paused, his fingers returned to the spot, prodding it. The soldier arched his back as white overtook his vision. It felt amazing; his toes curled at the feeling. The pain was gone, replaced by crashing waves of pleasure. Sherlock hummed in approval as he watched John's body convulse, the thrust getting faster, clearly needy. John kissed the detective, biting at his lip before pulling back. 

“Sherlock I want you.”

“You have me.”

“I want you… i-inside me.” John stuttered out, appalled that he had to spell it out. Sherlock grinned. He understood perfectly what John wanted, he just wanted to hear the man say it out loud. It made pleasure coil in his stomach to know how much he affected the soldier.

John grabbed the curls, tugging at them forcefully. Now. Please, god Sherlock now. 

Sherlock smirked. His fingers pulled out slowly, brushing the spot one more time, bringing out a deep moan from the soldier. His hands positioned on the soldier's hips, gripping tightly. John brought his legs up higher, wrapping them tightly as he pulled the detective closer. His hands traveled up the biceps and onto the back, smoothing the expanse of skin. Sherlock leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. They were both slick with sweat, part from the sweltering summer heat and part from lust. A wet cock slicked against John arse. He swallowed loudly, rolling his hips down; Sherlock hissed. John watched in rapt attention as the charcoal eyelashes fluttered shut at the feeling. Slowly the head pushed in. It was much larger than two fingers. Much, much larger. John screwed his eyes shut at the burning pain. The saliva and pre-cum from the head offered little lube as Sherlock pushed in. John gritted his teeth. It would be fine. He had been shot and survived. 

A soft kiss was placed on his cheek, drawing his eyes open. Sherlock looked at him gently. His nose touched Johns softly, bumping the two together. John could not hold back a giggle that was quickly overtaken by a low moan as Sherlock pushed in deeper. God, was this man ever going to be fully in? As if in answer to his question, John felt Sherlocks pelvis press against him. John had never felt so full. The pain ebbed away as Sherlock stayed still, patiently waiting for the sign to move. John sighed, he rolled his hips, enjoying the feeling. Sherlock was finally his. They were the closest they could ever be right now. It felt right to have his love inside him. 

John rolled his hips again, kissing the detective. Sherlocks teeth gritted tightly, his jaw visibly flexing. John nodded. At that, Sherlock slowly pulled out, before pushing back in gently. A gasp escaped the soldier at the feeling. His body was dragged up and down the grass, no doubt leaving dirt stains on the shirt; good thing it was old. Sherlock gave another thrust, his eyes were closed and jaw still tight as he controlled himself. John clawed at the back as Sherlock set a slow pace. Pushing in and out, rocking them together. John's cock rubbed against Sherlocks stomach; a small relief. He needed more. It was too slow. He was bursting with need. John was sure he could cry with want if the detective kept this up.

“S-sherlock. Fuck. Me. Please.” John added the last word as he watched green eyes widen. Sherlock's face was overtaken with a blush and he bent down. John could hear his raged breath as the detective dug into his neck, biting gently. The pace picked up instantly. Sherlock was not longer making love, he was fucking. Their moans mixed in a sympathy as their bodies rocked in unison. 

Sherlocks cock was reaching John's deepest parts. He felt himself tilt off kilter as the cock inside him hit the spot from earlier. It sent a flash of white across his vision. John clawed harshly at Sherlock's back at the feeling; his nails breaking skin. Sherlock did not seem to mind as he began to moan deeply into John's ear. His head stayed there as he snapped his hips forward at a brutal pace. John held on as he was fucked thoroughly

The bodies rocked against the grass. John moaned wantedly at the feeling of Sherlocks cock slipping in and out of him. It was a perfect mix of absolute want when he pulled out, and pure ecstasy when he thrust back in. The pleasure coiled in his gut, building up to a painful fullness. He was so close. Sherlocks breathed raggedly. His arms shook as he held himself up. John's hands shook as he moved them from Sherlock's back and to his face, gripping him on both sides of the head. He brought the unruly mess of curls in front of him. Sherlock was a sight to behold. Plump red lips, pink cheeks and eyes half-lidded with pleasure. John pressed him into a feverish kiss. Their teeth clinked together painfully, but both ignored it. 

“Sherlock,” John pulled away to gasp, “Please, t-t-touch me.”

Sherlocks shook his head, before bringing them into another kiss, “No.”

“W-why?” John's question was interrupted as Sherlock snapped his hips forward, hitting the spot perfectly. He was almost there, he just needed some more. He wanted Sherlocks hand on his cock, stroking him to completion. 

“Because,” Sherlock picked up his thrusts, “I want to watch you cum on my cock and nothing else. I want to watch you unravel as I fuck you.”

John felt his eyes roll back as the detective finished his reply with a harsh bite on the tan neck. He sucked on the bruised skin there, leaving a dark purple spot that would be reminiscent of their activities later. John could not hold back a wail as waves of pleasure rocked through his body. His lungs gasped for breath. His cock strained between them, the head an angry red and leaking with precum. But the cock impaling him was bringing enough to the table. Until suddenly, John felt his gut coil with white hot pleasure, and he was cumming all over Sherlocks stomach. The soldier gave an unceremonious wail as he rode out his orgasm. Sherlock moaned deeply above him, coming undone as John contracted around his cock. Warm liquid pooled inside John as he rode out his orgasm. HIs eyes remained rightly shut until his cock was done spurting out, what was the best orgasm the soldier had ever had. Sherlocks sweaty curls tickled his cheek as the detective gathered his breath. Slowly he pulled out, before rolling over as his arms gave out.

The two men stared up into the sky, panting like animals. The trees rustled above them as the breeze picked up. The peaches swayed back and forth. A comforting silence overtook them as they listened to the rustling leaves and chirping birds. John lolled his head to the side languidly, spotting the peach he had been eating minutes earlier. A giggle bubbled out, spilling past his lips. Sherlock looked over, confused. John could not stop the giggle from becoming a full blown laugh. Sherlocks lips stretched into a smile as he watched his soldier laugh with glee. Eventually, as he hiccupped to a resound silence, John turned to look at the detective. 

“All of this, because of a peach.” John gasped out. 

This time, both men burst into laughter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accepting prompts, feel free to comment one below :) Thank you for reading!


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